Wrath
by DEEPEST
Summary: The boys gain a deeper understanding of right and wrong. Entered in ABC themed writing contest on deviantart.


A blanket of smog hovered over New York like a dark sheet over a long-dead corpse. It was hard to believe that, at this time at night, the city still housed millions of little living souls.

Cars and yells and blinking lights all did their part in trying to mask the deathly silence of the starless sky. With noise and light pulsing through the streets, I imagined how hard it would be to remember just how small and insignificant the bustling town truly is.

But up on the rooftops, it was a lot easier.

The city a-buzz beneath my feet, I jogged to a stop on the top of a particularly tall building. My eyes were drawn automatically upwards as though pulled by invisible string. Scrutinising the steel-wool clouds, I once again reflected on how much I missed the farmhouse, where one could stare and stare and not once be met with a blank stretch of sky devoid of shimmering, faraway lights. But in New York, it seemed nobody felt obliged to stop and reflect on more than a piece of gum stuck on the sidewalk.

I sighed. Unlike them, I could not ignore the inevitable.

New York was a city of turmoil, and that cloudy sheet overhead was a dead giveaway; it was dark nights like these that were perfect for concealing all manner of crimes and crooks.

Unfortunately for me and my team, that meant pulling an all-nighter.

"Ugghhh... do we _have_ to do this tonight?" Michelangelo slouched up beside me, breathing a little heavily. "I'm missing a GTA session... there was gonna be a livestream and everything!"

"No-go, Mikey." Donnie showed up on my other side. "You know we gotta do what the boss says. And frankly, you need the exercise."

"Who cares what Mr. 'Holier than Thou' says?" Raphael swung his legs over the side of the building and let them dangle, his eyes searching hungrily through the crowds far below us. It was to my knowledge that on the rare occasions I let my most temperamental brother do the shopping, he took the direct route through the hundreds of humans while in disguise. The knowledge very nearly gave me nightmares, but Raphael was a social creature and relished these outings. So I allowed this small leniency.

Raph turned his head to give me the stink-eye. Somehow he always sensed when I was thinking about him. "Listen, Smugness, if we're not gonna cave in a few ribcages, what's the point of spending our night out here in the cold?"

"The point," I replied calmly. "Is that if something _does_ go down tonight, and requires our intervention, we'll be right here to put a stop to it." I raised my eyes to the shrouded heavens for what seemed like the thousandth time that night. "I thought that such a simple concept would be easy to understand, especially after the last ten times you've asked me that question this past month."

"Don't take that tone with me, Smug-lord!" Raph spat. "You're just lucky it's so cold up here. I'd ring your neck if my hands weren't numb..."

"Temper, temper..." I muttered, my attention waning. Indeed, it was rather chilly, despite the thick polluted air above our heads. I found the cool heightened my senses. My muscles, which had burned while running and leaping across the rooftops previously, ached with the sensation of frosted glass.

"We should get down." I turned and headed for the opposite side of the building. I heard the padded footsteps of my brothers as they followed, and it occurred to me that my team only ever struck up complaints when we weren't on the move. I supposed it was because there was little else to do than stay attentive. As much as they liked to voice their opinions, my team still recognised the responsibility it took to patrol the city that did not know we existed.

It was a tough job, but one we were committed to. The cops did their work under the watchful eyes of the media, the citizens and government. But us? We were a secret agency; unheard of and undetected. And that made our job no easier to bear, but a whole lot less complicated.

Time passed quickly as we made our way down the side of the building and leapt onto another. On and on we ran and jumped and poked our heads down alleyways, hoping not to find some terrible deed being done.

But once, twice, three times, four times, we caught criminals with their hands painted red, their knives to the throats of helpless victims, guns at point-blank. Stealing, robbing, raping, pillaging and plundering. Mikey pondered whether the men we were fighting were crooks or pirates. Don insisted that they were the same thing.

Five times, six times, seven. Through bloodied scenarios and wrong-doers, we made our rounds. We encountered lucky number eight when a resounding crash echoed across the tiles of a little old church.

Roughly the size of a smaller office building, and an old brass cross bolted to its face; the church was the picture of absolute innocence, guilty of nothing but the remnants of a horrible rubber-duck yellow paint that was still peeling from the doorframes. It was from inside the main building that we heard a ghastly wail. Long-suffered and pleading, the voice carried with it the croak of age and what might have been a pack of cigarettes a day, if the old man hadn't given up some time ago.

My brothers and I moved swiftly, as silent and unnoticed as the dark sky above the heads of the bright populace. With me at the head, we crept through an old, shattered window. The mosaic of colours that remained stuck inside the pane sparked with golden lamplight as we passed, ghostlike, onto a rough, sanded banister. The interior of the building looked as though everything broken or deteriorated had been rebuilt by hand. Clearly, the church had not had many funds in the last decade.

I indicated to the others, and began to creep down the stairs towards the commotion. Michelangelo followed closely behind me, while Donatello and Raphael swung to the ceiling, keeping to the shadows. By the sounds coming from below, I judged that there were roughly eight or nine intruders harassing who I guessed was the pastor. A couple of surprise attackers would insure this business be done with quickly.

Reaching a darkened doorway, I raised my hand to halt my brother before continuing. It was from down the passage behind it that the noises were emanating.

A creak sounded somewhere above my head. My other two teammates had gone to find another way in. Cautiously, I stood up and walked silently towards the source of the noise. Mike and I stayed close to the wall as we moved.

The hallway opened out into a well-kept main hall. Twenty rows of padded oak benches sat facing a small stage and pedestal. I saw stacks of old books with the words 'Songs of Christ' in faded gold letters on their fronts.  
In the corner of the room across from us, a group of armed men were gathered around a thin old man wearing a plaid shirt and suit jacket. The man wore horn-rimmed glasses and had watery dark eyes, his hair and short beard snow-white. The poor man was distressed, but seemed to be in enough control of himself to carry on a reasoned conversation with the men that surrounded him. Thankfully, the thugs seemed to hold in them enough respect for the religious, or maybe just the elderly, to not physically harm the pastor.

"Please, listen," He had a kind and appreciative voice. "I know your lives may not have been the most rewarding, but there are ways to get help that do not involve resorting to crime!" He gestured around him, "Take this church, for example. Our congregation would be happy to offer assistance. The Lord says…"

"Don't show us pity, old man; we're not the ones with guns at our heads!" A brutish man spoke up. His accomplices laughed dumbly and some raised their weapons in encouragement. Mike shifted behind me, but I raised my hand again. He wasn't in immediate danger just yet.

"The Lord say's…" The pastor continued, showing genuine concern for his captors' well-beings. The brutish man eyed him with disdain. "That 'He who asks shall receive.' 'Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.' God has put us on this earth to live and serve one another, and to be his vessels so to spread his word and rescue souls from sin."

Several of the other men looked uncomfortable, but the Brute took the lead in laughing at the old man's statements as though they were spoken by a confused young child. His fellows took to his leadership like fire to tinder, and began making jokes at his expense.

"Stupid religious git..."

"Talking crap-"

"Like we care, gramps!"

Surprisingly, the pastor did not rise to their taunts. In fact he seemed to expect it. To the crooks surprise, and my own, he continued softly. "Do you not fear God?"

Brute shrieked with maniacal laughter. Before he could continue with a retort, the pastor stood and addressed him directly.

"Do you not fear God?" He repeated. "As Jesus hung dying on the cross, he was accompanied by two others sentenced to death in this way. The one to his left jeered and mocked at him, not believing him to be the Messiah. But the crook to his right called to his companion and said those very words: 'Do you not fear God?'…"

I held my breath. Surely, the pastor would be killed for speaking to them like this? Many criminals held a short fuse, and considered any retaliation sheer cheek. But once more, I was surprised to find the robbers keep their guns to their sides, listening, but uncomfortable. As though they were regular people watching a generous man placing coins into a homeless' cup while they walked by trying to muffle the jingle of cash in their pockets.

The pastor kept speaking softly. "'Do you not fear God since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.' He then turned to Jesus and said… 'Jesus, remember me when I come into your kingdom.' And I do not lie to you, gentlemen…" The pastor looked at each of his captors in turn, "The Messiah looked back at that convicted criminal, a _murderer_ sentenced to death, and said: 'Truly I tell you, today you will _be with me_ in paradise…'"

The men appeared to be speechless. I looked at the pastor in awe, slightly disbelieving. Was it really possible? If Jesus really was real, he wouldn't have invited a murderer into heaven. Surely not.

As though reading the minds of the men surrounding him, who seemed to be more or less thinking along the same lines as me, the pastor added, "…Luke 23, The Crucifixion of Jesus." Mikey breathed deeply behind me, and I knew that he, like I was, was wondering how the group of thugs would react to his gentle reassurance.

What happened next had me jumping a foot into the air, my heart pounding.  
The Brute whipped out a pistol and aimed it right into the pastors' face, breathing heavily, his eyes wild and manic.

" **THERE AIN'T NEVER BEEN AN 'EFFING JESUS!** " He yelled, and though his face was contorted with rage, his voice was distressed and fearful. He sounded like a child. " **AND THERE AIN'T NO SUCH THING AS 'EFFING GOD, NEITHER!** "

And he shot the old man in the chest.

" _NOOO!_ " I shrieked, and along with my outcry there were three equal screams of rage as I and my brothers streaked from the shadows, four blurs of green, and attacked.

It was only when the gunfire had ceased, and the thugs lay unconscious in a heap with bruises blossoming across their faces and arms, did we realise that the pastor was not dead.

"Thank…you…" He gasped, apparently no more shocked about finding himself surrounded by mutant turtles than by the fact that he was still very much alive. After a brief analysis, Donnie concluded that the bullet had just barely nicked his ribcage, and that no vital organs were damaged.

After some quick needlework by Don, the pastor insisting that he did not have the money or the need to go to the hospital, and some rummaging through a few cabinets in the buildings little kitchen for antiseptic, he insisted that we stay for a cup of tea. As we all felt guilty for almost costing him his life, we accepted without a second thought. We sat in the main room, borrowing stray chairs from an old closet to sit in a circle, the pastor perched comfortably on the edge of the stage.

"We're really sorry for not stopping him before he could shoot you, sir." Said Mike once he had a steaming cup of Earl Grey clasped in his hands. We all earnestly added our agreement. The old man simply waved his hand and sipped his tea.

"Nonsense, nonsense, it is because of you that this church will have substantial funds for the next two and a half years." He gave us a wide smile and gestured behind him, where a padded lock could be seen attached to the pedestal. "That is what those men were after, you see. When the city council finally responded to my letters and allowed us a few thousand dollars to help us re-build it ended up in a newspaper article. I suppose our friends caught wind of our sudden good fortune…"

"And wanted a piece of it." Raph growled, aggressively sipping his cup of tea.

"We're glad you can finally rebuild your church, pastor, sir." Donnie piped up, a light to his eyes. "I'm a bit of a mechanic, myself, sir. If you want to save some extra money on fixing things up, I'd be happy to help out." The pastor clapped his hands together gleefully.

"Yes! That will leave me with enough left to re-tile the roof and get our young members some proper bibles! Excellent, my good fellow, bless you! Bless you all." He beamed at us and we beamed back. Here was a man who had worked tirelessly for the betterment of others, a man that we, therefore, could relate to.

Something still bothered me, though. And as I looked across at my brothers, I realised that I was the only one who lingered on the conversation the pastor had with the criminals that almost killed him.

Mikey glanced at me. "Is something wrong, Leo?"

Suddenly, all eyes were on me. The pastor looked quite concerned, but nodded to me, somehow knowing the question I needed to ask. I cleared my throat.

"Pastor…" I began, feeling foolish, but encouraged by his nods. "Why did- Uh… I didn't really expect that one man to react quite the way he did, Pastor." Of course, I was thinking of the Brute who nearly killed him. The old man smiled in a grim, accepting sort of way.

"Yes, unfortunately he did not take my recount of Luke 23 in the way his friends almost did. You see, he, much like the murderer who was to the right side of Jesus on the cross, did, in fact, fear God. But, unlike the convicted murderer, he reacted much the way every other person did when Jesus was crucified. He jeered, he mocked. He chose, out of fear, not to believe in something he did not quite understand."

He took a sip of his tea and, seeing the question in our gazes, gently continued.

"Yes, he reacted the way he did out of fear. You see, one terribly bad habit we humans… and turtles," He smiled at us, "Have is that we love being completely in control. And we prefer to believe in our own mortal beings than to put our trust in our immortal souls. Wrath is a deadly sin, one of seven. But unlike how many people perceive it, it is not brought about by evil thoughts, but is rather an act of evil, brought about by fear of the unknown…"

He sighed and folded his hands in front of him. "It is why many men like them resort to stealing and murder."

"They enjoy having a gun in their hands…" I murmured. "Because it makes them feel like they are the ones who are in control."

The pastor hummed in agreement. Then slowly stood up, clutching his side, with the help of Raphael. "I think it is about time I go to bed. I live here, you see. I have to do the maintenance; I'm afraid we do not yet have many volunteers to clean this building on weekdays…"

"Will you be alright?" I stood and shook his hand, which he had held out to me and my brothers.

"Yes, yes." He grinned and moved on to shake Donatello's hand and exchange telephone numbers to keep in contact. "You must not fear for me. I do not fear God."

He turned to the doorway, and then looked over his shoulder at us. "And forgive me, my friends…" He said softly, "But I do not agree with your methods." He glanced over at the pile of unconscious criminals. "I am grateful for what you have done for this church, but I must ask you to please not enact Wrath on any more poor, lost souls on my part."

And he shuffled of, calling his last goodbyes. We waved and moved silently out through the same window we came in through. The sky was growing lighter, and we were met with no more criminal acts as we made our way back to the other side of town, down the side of a small building, and descended into the sewers.

Before I closed the manhole cover above my head, I glimpsed a homeless man walking past the alley, handing back a woman's dropped phone before she could have walked away and left it.


End file.
